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    COTY

    Assailant -- Year 226

    QOTY

    "But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura


    lost to these linens / tangerine
    #1
    haze like a fever
    i fell like a dreamer for sweet tea and lemonade; it clings to my t-shirt it’s loud and it lingers, designed to suffocate. i light up to find what i’ve known all this time, there’s some beauty here yet
    She’s in the midst of Tephra this time, drying off in the autumn sun after spending the majority of the day in the warmth of a stream close to the volcano’s foothills. The scents of freshwater and warm dirt waft off her body. Despite bathing in the water, she is patchy with layers of dirt that cling to the maturing curves of her body.

    Wishbone is still a lanky, youthful thing but she is almost a year old and growing quickly. The auburn highlight of her dark mane catches on the dying sunlight. Her eyes turn toward the sky, where faint hints of the constellations of the night are beginning to dance into view. Excitement winds its way into her heart; some of her most peaceful moments are spent in the company of the navy sky with its glowing counterparts.

    A soft puff of hair leaves the cavities of her lungs before Wishbone’s mahogany head lowers to catch some blades of emerald grass.
    credit to eliza of adoxography.

    @[Tangerine]
    #2

    Tangerine

    In the middle of the night, I go walking in my sleep


    Sawgrass sways around Tangerine's gold and alabaster body as she sleeps away the sweltering twilight of late autumn. Her lids flicker over closed eyes as her last dream of the day fades away and her consciousness returns to her. There is the rustling of a child at play not far away and the seer lifts her head from its pillow of sandy loam to looks between the sap-green lattice.

    The daughter of her lover, grown in the womb of another. Raised in the shadow of the volcano, but destined to shine brilliantly in another land.

    Tangerine sighs

    Long journeys and gentle kisses had brought them together three children and six years ago - but now that same magic was pulling them apart. 

    Or at least that's what her dreams told her

    She wonders if she should leave him here in the beautiful world he had created for them. She wonders if she stands in his way, in the way of the beautiful creature before her. Tang never wonders these things when he is by her side, when they are hidden away from politics and seashell crowns in their grotto - the obsidian sanctuary they had made a home.

    When she is alone the hot days stretch too long, and she wonders if his story would be richer without her.

    'the visions aren't always true' she consoles her soul
    but she had never been a fighter

    There was a quickening in the darkness of her womb which stayed her wayward heart. Where three had grown from seed to sapling another coils, transparent and soft. She doesn't need the vision to tell her what this feeling is.

    None of this has to do with this girl, she reminds herself.
    Her thoughts rarely stayed anchored when she found herself alone. 
    (she is not alone)

    With the stars, she rises. From the chest-high grass, her honey gaze drifting over the girl and a gentle smile softens her features dispide the turmoil of her mind. 

    "Hello, Wishbone."




    @[Wishbone] Tang writes herself, this go way more rambly than i intended :|
    #3
    haze like a fever
    i fell like a dreamer for sweet tea and lemonade; it clings to my t-shirt it’s loud and it lingers, designed to suffocate. i light up to find what i’ve known all this time, there’s some beauty here yet
    Wishbone doesn’t know of the confusion she brings with her. She knows her parents are not necessarily in love (not in the way that they nestle together under the glow of stars or sleep with torsos and legs intertwined or murmur sweet nothings into one another’s ears) but there is a connection there, strong and sure. Wishbone does know of the constant of the ocean’s waves, the endless shifting of the seasons, the countless adventures and possibilities the world holds.

    The mahogany girl also knows that the grass she snatches tastes a hint like brine and smoke. She isn’t sure if the added flavor is tasteful enough to continue eating, but Wishbone doesn’t have to decide when a voice calls her name. Her smooth face lifts from among the tall, shifting blades to see who had called her name. The voice wasn’t familiar, but Wishbone identifies the face from the most recent of Tephra’s meetings.

    She had seen the way her father had looked at this mare before — a look which never flickered across his face with such severity when he looked at Wound. It strikes suspicion in the low of her belly even now, the expression glinting in the glow of her sunset eyes. Wishbone has never met the honey and ivory woman before, at least not officially. But apparently the stranger knows of her.

    “You know my father well, don’t you?” She’s never really been a huge fan of beating around the bush. Despite the uncertainty in the shadows of her gaze, Wishbone’s face is relatively soft. The dying autumn sun flashes against her maturing curves and the auburn highlight of her dark, knotted mane. Standing in the tall grasses (which slightly sway from a faint breeze winding between the trees), patched with dirt and shining with twilight glow, she looks every bit a piece of Tephra as the volcano and beaches and lava streams themselves.

    “What’s your name?”
    credit to eliza of adoxography.

    @[Tangerine]
    #4

    Tangerine

    In the middle of the night, I go walking in my sleep


    She looks like Warrick, with the warm mahogany of her coat glowing in the autumn brilliance, more so than any of the children Tangerine bore.  But the suspicion in her eye and the budding pride is something all her own. Ther is a feral quality to the child, and Tang doesn't know if it's from the way the girl addresses her, or something she has seen in a dream. 

    Regardless, the painted mare finds that she is already charmed. 

    "Mhmm," she hums in response to the first question, not bothering to hide the smile which curls the one corner of her pale lips. If the girl wanted more answers all she had to do was ask, but Tang didn't want to cross any lines Wound had drawn - at least not without some effort on Wishbone's part. 

    "Tangerine," she answeres she answers the second question. "Tang if you prefer," she adds in her sleepy alto, which never lost its foreign draw. 

    "I had a dream about you, Wishbone... would you like to hear it?" she questions, with one brow raised. Tang half expects the girl to balk at the strange statement, but the other half of her knows the curious princess could never leave a mystery unsolved. 

    [Image: tzang]




    #5
    haze like a fever
    i fell like a dreamer for sweet tea and lemonade; it clings to my t-shirt it’s loud and it lingers, designed to suffocate. i light up to find what i’ve known all this time, there’s some beauty here yet
    Wishbone is content with Tangerine’s brief answer. She is on the cusp of her first year, still growing and learning about the world around her, but she is rather intelligent. She knows enough to pick up on the hints that circulate around her — even finding a clue in the way the painted mare’s mouth moves into a sleepy smile. It’s enough for her to come to her own genuine conclusions.

    The mahogany girl shrugs off her suspicion, rolling her shoulders into a heavy shake that cleanses both the sourness in her stomach and a puff of dirt off her back. She locks away the name to memory — Tangerine, the woman of her father’s affections — and begins to move closer, the shifting blades of grass parting against her chest like an emerald sea. Wishbone’s ears prick up at the proposition Tangerine brings.

    She’s never been one to stand down mystery or the possibility for adventure. “Sure.”
    credit to eliza of adoxography.

    @[Tangerine]




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